


Preparations

by asenath_waite



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Akallabêth, Awkward Conversations, Don't copy to another site, Ghosts, Haunting, M/M, Mostly Dialogue, Possessive Behavior, Sauron cares about the Orcs, Witch-Hairstylist of Angmar, bold of you to assume murder will get you out of this relationship, dead Orc babies mentioned, ghost Tyelpe, past Sauron/Thuringwethil, silvergifting, some adult talk but no action, vague implication of possible future rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 07:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19988449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asenath_waite/pseuds/asenath_waite
Summary: Sauron gets dressed up to surrender. Someone has questions.The further adventures of Very Tired Sauron and Stalker Ghost Tyelpe.





	Preparations

**Author's Note:**

> I'm using the MERP idea that the Witch-King of Angmar was Er-Murazor, son of Tar-Ciryatan the 12th king of Numenor, and therefore related to both Celebrimbor and Ar-Pharazon.

"My Lord, you cannot--" 

Mairon glared at his servant in the dressing table mirror. "Do not presume to tell me what I can or cannot do, Murazor. Your kinsman's army will destroy Mordor and massacre our people if I do not give him what he wants; would you prefer that? You and Shagrat are more than capable of running the country while I am gone."

"Which Shagrat?" Murazor muttered peevishly as he fixed another golden braid into the elaborate construction he was building on top of his master's head. "There must be two hundred Orcs with that name."

"Three hundred and seventy-three," Mairon corrected. "And you know very well which one."

"I don't like him." Murazor examined the box of jeweled hairpins sitting open on Mairon's dressing table and selected one with a tiny carved ruby eye on the end.

"He doesn't like you either. But he knows how to manage our resources, and you know how to manage our alliances. I need you to work together, so that I have a country to come back to when I am finished with Númenor." Mairon held up a pair of gold earrings next to his ears, then another, and settled on the first pair. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Good." Mairon peered into the mirror and carefully dotted gold paint along his cheekbones. "Should I make my eyes more Mannish? I want to look exotic, but not immediately frightening."

"Your eyes are beautiful, my Lord."

"Mmm, but did you think so the first time you saw them?"

"Er--"

"Indeed." Mairon's pupils spread into circles and his fire-orange irises shifted to a bright, almost metallic golden color. "How is this? Too much gold?"

"He calls himself 'The Golden', my Lord," Murazor said. He started weaving a strand of fire opals between the braids he had fixed in place. "Presumably he likes gold."

Mairon laughed. "Then I shall be a golden vessel filled with the sweetest poison. What does he desire most?"

"Immortality, my Lord, just as every Númenorean does." Murazor scrutinized his creation for a moment, then adjusted several hairpins so their jeweled ends showed more prominently.

"Of course." Mairon dipped his brush back into the gold paint and began to line his eyes. "My kin were fools to give Men a glimpse of paradise and expect them to be grateful."

"They do not know us as you do, my Lord. They never cared to learn."

"They will come to regret that, I think," Mairon said. He took the last ginger cookie from a plate set precariously on the edge of the dressing table, ate it in one bite, and started painting his lips.

"I hope so." Murazor added a final pin and a bit of gold powder, then stepped back to assess his creation. "Is this satisfactory, my Lord?"

Lips done, Mairon stood up and slowly turned around in front of his full-length mirror. White and gold robes covered him from chin to ankle, gold shimmered on his lips and cheeks and framed his eyes, and his elaborately stacked and bejeweled hair added another head and a half to his already impressive height. "Your work is flawless, as always."

"Thank you, my Lord."

"Go and tell them I am ready," Mairon said, and gently tucked a lock of hair behind Murazor's ear. "I would have a moment alone."

"Yes, my Lord." Murazor bowed and left.

Mairon slumped back into his chair as soon as the door closed. "Well?" he asked the seemingly empty room. "Surely you have an opinion to share?"

Something shivered across his hair and gently tugged his earrings. _It's been a long time since I saw you looking so splendid. If I were in my little cousin's place, I would tear off your finery and bend you over in front of that mirror._

Mairon bit back a whimper. "Why, Tyelpë darling, are you jealous?"

Icy fingers pinched the tips of his ears hard enough to make him wince. _You belong to me. Do not forget it._

Mairon glared at nothing and rubbed the frigid sting out of his ears. "The only one who deserves your jealousy is long gone. Murazor is dear to me, but his ring will not hold the Gift of Men at bay forever, and someday he must go where I cannot follow. As well you know."

_And did my rival tread the same dark road out of the world?_

"She returned to our Parent, perhaps, or to the Valie she once served. I only know that I could not call her back to her body." Mairon looked down at his gold-lacquered nails and sighed. "No one calls Tinúviel a kinslayer."

_..._

"Thuri might have liked you," Mairon continued softly. "At least she would have found your jealousy amusing."

_And you do not?_

"I am older than the world, Tyelpë. You are not the first to claim ownership of me." 

_I will be the last._

"Perhaps." Mairon looked around at his perfectly organized dressing room, the wide window with its familiar view over the plateau to the now-quiet slopes of Orodruin, the empty plate of his favorite cookies. "I will miss this place."

_Precious...for once I agree with my little cousin. The Númenoreans are despoilers and lords of slaves, and they have been so for many generations of Men. This Pharazôn is naught but a brute in a pretty costume, and I...I would not see you hurt._

"Truly? You of all people should be delighted to see me hurt."

_…you know I do not believe in retributive justice._

Mairon sighed and barely stopped himself from rubbing his eyes. "Why? Why do you refuse to hate me?"

_Because you are my treasure. My love. My Precious. Nothing you do can change that._

"You chose your treasure poorly."

_Humility does not suit you._

Mairon smirked. "You used to like me humble."

_Only for me._

"That is unfortunate," Mairon said. He realized, somewhat distantly, that his body did not seem to be getting enough air. "Because quite a lot of people are going to see me humble today." 

_This vile descendant of Indis and his herd of sycophants do not deserve to see you on your knees. Why are you surrendering so easily?_

Mairon sighed. "Did you fight against us, when the Valar brought their army to Beleriand?"

_Very little. My great-uncle did not trust me._

"Silly of him. Were you there at the end?"

_No._

"The noble and glorious Lords of the West slaughtered every Orc in Angband, from blind elder to suckling infant," Mairon said. "When I went back--the blood in the nursery came up to my knees--and they had just left the babies floating in it--"

_Precious--_

Mairon squeezed his eyes shut and forced his body back into equilibrium. "I will not let the Númenoreans do the same to Lugbúrz. If my dignity is the price, so be it. They can learn to fear me after my people are safe."

Incorporeal arms wrapped around his shoulders. _I am sorry, my love. You are a better king than I expected. If only…_

"If only," Mairon echoed, and the ropes of thorns bound around his soul writhed in sudden rage, making him double over and grit his teeth against the pain.

Spectral hands rubbed his chest. _These attacks are getting worse. Morgoth does not like it when you doubt, does he?_

"Don't call Him that!" Mairon snapped, and the bonds subsided, satisfied.

_Oh, my Precious. Still you cannot see--_

"I can see what I need to see," Mairon interrupted. He looked down at his hands again. "Tyelpë…do not follow me to the Númenorean camp."

_You presume to command me?_

"Please," Mairon said. "Pharazôn may wish to--to demonstrate his power over me, and I will find it easier to endure if I know you are not watching."

_I will kill him if he--_

"I will kill him whether he does or not," Mairon said. "But today I need him to think he has completely defeated me. Please, Tyelpë."

_As you wish._

"Thank you," Mairon said. "Try not to torment Murazor and the others too much while I'm gone, unless of course they're fighting each other or falling behind in their duties--do not let Khamûl forget about the terracing in the Ephel Dúath; it must be finished before the rains begin or we'll have mudslides again--"

_I'll miss you too, my love._

"I didn't say--"

"My Lord?" Murazor asked from behind the door. "They are becoming impatient."

"Thank you, Murazor. I'm coming." Mairon stood up and looked around the room one last time. "Wish me luck, Tyelpë. I'm going to destroy Númenor."

_..._

  
  
  
  



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